Last Call
by the sailor's wife
Summary: Hannah's met a lot of strange people working at the Leaky Cauldron. But no one quite like Bellatrix Lestrange's sister.


**Author's note:** it broke my Neville/Luna shipper heart a little to write Hannah/Neville even if it's only background but I did. it's believable, I hope! leave a review and let me know what you think? **  
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**Disclaimer: **Nothing is mine. Not even the title.

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><p><strong>Last Call<strong>

"_Morning comes like a broken-winged bird,_  
><em>as though daylight delivers a miracle cure.<em>  
><em>Here in the pink of a dangerous day<em>  
><em>forgive me, <em>  
><em>forgive me."<em>  
>– Last Call, Amelia Curran<p>

Hannah Longbottom is still one of the younger waitresses at the Leaky Cauldron, and she pulls the late shifts twice a week. Tonight is a Wednesday, which she doesn't mind; Wednesday nights most customers are just passing through. They stop to get a beer or a firewhisky, exchange a few words, and head off to their own night shifts, or apartments, or clandestine meetings. It doesn't really matter what they do outside of the bar, or at least it isn't supposed to. Three years after the end of the war, Hannah still has a hard time with the non-interference policy. She _fought._ She was there, from the beginning of Dumbledore's Army to the Battle of Hogwarts. Some of the faces that she serves she remembers from those battles.

Tom has made it very clear, however, that the Leaky Cauldron wouldn't exist if they refused to serve some folk but not others. So Hannah grits her teeth and pours the drinks while her fingers itch for her wand.

She starts her shift at eleven. The Cauldron is mostly empty. A few regulars wave at her from their booth as she steps into the bar, and she waves back cheerfully. Besides Polonius and his usual gang, there's only one other occupied table. She can see the back of one woman's head, a mass of brown curls; Hannah slides down the bar until she can see the other woman.

_Narcissa Malfoy._ That's a face Hannah can't forget. She fights back a flash of anger – Death Eaters will always be Death Eaters, nothing can change that, Hannah _will not_ serve her, she cannot. She would have killed this woman three years ago, she would have – without thinking twice.

Now Narcissa Malfoy is sitting peacefully in a table at her pub, and if she asks Hannah for a drink Hannah will have to pour it. She knows that other Death Eaters have sat here. She's sure that she's served them food and drink, as they asked for it. Some of them were familiar – but she didn't hate them the same way she hates the Malfoy family. The Malfoys, and their in-laws the Lestranges.

No, she cannot serve Bellatrix Lestrange's sister. For Neville's sake, at least. And though she doesn't know for certain who killed her mother she has always suspected it was a Malfoy.

Normally Hannah would make a round of the pub, say hello to the familiar faces and check up on new ones. Not tonight. She stays firmly behind the bar. When Polonius waves at her again, she brings their table another round and ignores Narcissa Malfoy.

Narcissa leaves around one without ordering another drink. Her companion stays at the table, her back turned. Hannah watches, waiting for her to get up without paying – it may be petty, but she wants another reason to hate any friends of Narcissa.

The other woman doesn't move, though. She pushes the empty glasses around on the table but stays seated. After fifteen minutes, Hannah gets up. She washes some more glasses, dries a few dishes, wipes down the bar. Any busy work she can think of. It's the same thing she does every shift, but this particular night she attacks every task with a fury.

A few wizards enter and sit at the bar; she pours them some Quintin Black and goes back to her work, eavesdropping half-heartedly. Someone is in trouble with the Department of Muggle Relations, someone else's daughter is trying out for the Holyhead Harpies. They throw down some Sickles after twenty minutes and leave.

Hannah is counting out her tip when Narcissa's friend approaches the bar. She doesn't notice her until the other woman sits down.

"You," she hisses, dropping the change, drawing her wand. "_You're dead._"

Bellatrix Lestrange's ghost laughs, bitterly. "No. Not me." She casts a glance at Hannah, sizing her up. "You're thinking of my sister."

Hannah takes another look. No, this woman is not quite Bellatrix – her hair is lighter, her eyes softer. Her face is lined with care; Hannah can't imagine that Bellatrix would ever have crow's feet or laugh lines, but this woman does. And Bellatrix is _dead._ Hannah saw her die.

So Hannah puts her wand away and picks up the Sickles. "Sorry," she says. "Some habits are hard to break."

The ghost almost smiles. "I understand. A glass of Blishen's, please?"

As Hannah pours the drink – not something women order, not often – she looks at the woman again. She hands her the glass and says, "I don't want to be rude, but – your sister? I didn't know she had another sister. Besides Narcissa, I mean."

The curly-haired woman takes a slow drink before she answers. "They don't talk about me much. I'm Andromeda."

Hannah extends a hand; she's coming to feel sympathy for this strange, sad woman. "Hannah Longbottom."

Andromeda starts, then shakes her hand firmly. It's a businesslike handshake, but there's nothing businesslike about her voice as she asks, "Are you Neville's wife?"

Hannah nods. "You know? . . . you know. What she did."

Andromeda takes another sip of her Ogden's. "To Frank and Alice, yes." She pauses. "Well, to everyone, really. Someone has to remember her sins. And I can't seem to forget them."

Vaguely Hannah remembers promising herself that she would never serve Bellatrix Lestrange's sister. This sister, however, is so unlike anything she would have expected that she barely feels she's breaking her promise.

Besides, this is the part of bartending she likes best, morbid as it may be; talking to strangers and hearing their woes. Knowing that suffering is everywhere, but that there's also a chance at happiness if you look for it. So she offers Andromeda some advice: "You shouldn't have to do that. That's too much weight for anyone to bear."

Andromeda smiles ironically. "So it is. But I bear it anyway."

The younger woman can't think of anything to say for a moment. Then Andromeda breaks the silence, before it stretches out too thin. "I stopped apologizing for Bella a long time ago, so this isn't an apology. But if it's any consolation to Neville, Bella was never really sane herself. That doesn't make it any better, I know. It's the truth, though."

"I'll let him know," Hannah promises. "That's a wound that will take a long time to heal, though." She thinks how strange it is to hear someone call Bellatrix Lestrange "Bella," that anyone could care enough to give her a nickname.

"Some wounds never heal," Andromeda says.

Hannah's heard that many times in the past three years. Privately, she disagrees. If Harry's scar could heal, then so can the others – whether they're physical or not. However, she's learned the hard way that not everyone wants to hear it, and she can tell that Andromeda doesn't. She changes the subject.

"If you didn't get along with Bellatrix, then why were here with Narcissa? She was a Death Eater, too."

There's a hard silence. "I'm sorry," Hannah mutters. "I didn't mean it to sound. . . That sounded awful."

The other woman looks up from her drink. Her face softens. "I'm sure you didn't. I'm just. . . tired. It _is_ the truth." She takes another sip. "I don't really like Narcissa either, to be honest, but she's all I have left."

Andromeda's voice isn't sad, or angry, or anything at all. Just matter-of-fact and empty. It sends chills through Hannah.

"All you have left?"

A flicker of emotion passes over the woman's face. Whether it's sorrow or something else, Hannah can't tell. Perhaps it's something deeper than sorrow. She says, "No. _That's_ not true. I have a grandson. He's too little to understand, though."

"Oh." Hannah has heard too many horror stories from the war. She has lived her own, she has cried over graves. But what Andromeda's saying, she still almost can't believe. "What – what happened?"

The glass is empty now but Andromeda still picks it up to drink from it, trying to fortify herself against the heartache. She puts it down absentmindedly before she starts. "My parents died a long time ago, before this war. My aunt and uncle, too. One of my cousins died in the first war." That's easy enough for her to say; the next part, she says slowly and haltingly, heartbreak by heartbreak. "My husband refused to register as a Muggleborn, but Snatchers caught him and – killed him. My other cousin – my other cousin. He was one of the first killed, this time round. Sirius. And my daughter – " Andromeda isn't looking at Hannah anymore; she's staring at the wall behind the bar, unseeing, and there are tears in her eyes. "My daughter, and my son-in-law. She killed them. She killed all three of them."

Hannah is starting to understand, slowly, but there are pieces missing. She remembers Sirius Black, the murderer who escaped from Azkaban. She didn't know that Bellatrix had killed him, though; that had never been in the Daily Prophet. This isn't important, this isn't the important part, Hannah knows this; but the enormity of what she's hearing is almost too much.

Andromeda composes herself a little and continues. "My sister killed my daughter." That awful sentence hangs in the air but Hannah still doesn't understand, doesn't want to. "But she left me my grandson." Her faces brightens, infinitesimally. "You probably know him, right? Teddy Lupin. After his grandfather."

And then all the pieces click together.

Hannah stares at the older woman, horrified. Somehow she had never thought of Tonks' mother – though she had never known the Auror well, Neville had always spoken highly of her. She's met Teddy, once or twice, at Harry's house, but she had never known –

Andromeda doesn't seem to notice the shock on the younger woman's face. "Tonight's my _night off_. To 'have fun.' Harry means well, I know, but I seem to have forgotten how to have fun." She turns to Hannah with another comment on her lips, but stops short.

"Now it's my turn to be sorry," she says. She laughs again, and this time it's not bitter. Reaching out for Hannah's hand, she says comfortingly, "I forget, you know. That not everyone knows this feeling. I shouldn't have dropped all of that on you."

The situation is so bizarre that Hannah doesn't even know what to say. Andromeda Tonks, who has lost so much, lived through so much pain, is sitting there comforting _her._ She squeezes Andromeda's hand.

"Maybe some wounds don't heal," Hannah admits, slowly.

"Only time will tell," the other woman replies. "Nothing will ever be right for me, not anymore, but maybe someday it will be better. I try to believe that, you know. Most days. Nights are harder."

Hannah believes that. They hold hands silently for a minute. Then Hannah notices the time. "Oh. I missed last call," she says, guiltily. It shouldn't matter, not right now, but she does have a job to do.

Andromeda lets go of her hand, and Hannah calls out to Polonius. "Closing time!"

His joking response is jolting. "You forgetting something?"

"Last call and closing time," she calls back. He smiles graciously. "It's alright, we're done for the night." One of his gang walks up to her bar to pay the tab; Hannah gives him his change and the group leaves.

She turns back to Andromeda, who's taken out her wallet.

"No, no," she hurries to say. "It's on the house."

Andromeda smiles. It's the closest she's come to a genuine smile all night. "That might be charity," she says, "but I'll take it."

Hannah laughs softly. It seems like the best response.

"Well," Andromeda continues, "It's been nice talking to you. I – talking to Narcissa is hard, but this was..." She trails off, uncertainly.

Hannah picks up her glass and cleans it with a flick of her wand. "Let me walk you out," she says. The two women walk to the door together. Hannah stays inside, to lock it.

Though sun won't be up for a few hours yet, the sky is starting to brighten. Andromeda might be a ghost in the gray light: a memory of a wife or a mother.

They look at each other, quietly. Andromeda lifts a hand to wave.

"Maybe you could –" Hannah blurts, then recovers herself. "Would you like to come to dinner one night? You and Teddy. Neville and I would love to have you."

Andromeda smiles. She's not dead, not yet. "We would love to. Send me an owl." She smiles again, waves, and walks off into the dawn.


End file.
